


You Look Good on Me

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 21:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10558012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Fluffy, adorable, eager-to-please-you Castiel likes the way you look in his white button down shirt the morning after a night of incredible sex. So much so, he wants to make you breakfast. Oral sex, female receiving (come on, who doesn’t fantasize about this angel between their thighs?).





	

_Lebanon Times_ daily newspaper tucked under one arm, paperboard Gas ‘N Sip coffee cup clasped in hand, whistling low to the classic rock tune of _Smoke on the Water_ , Dean Winchester leisurely rambled by the bunker’s kitchen threshold. Several paces beyond the door, he stopped up short, coffee sloshing from the ill-fitting plastic lid to splatter his leather shoes, brow furrowing, brain incrementally registering the odd sight presented to his peripheral vision. Gravitating backward, he craned his neck, peering into the kitchen, calmly confirming with a bob of his head that Castiel was indeed situated at the counter attempting to assuage an angrily beeping coffee maker into producing a fresh pot while wearing nothing but crinkled white boxer shorts. Dean scanned up and down the empty hall and around the otherwise unoccupied room before clearing his throat to announce his presence.

Cas snapped shut the top of the ornery contraption, effectively silencing it. Angling to regard his friend, he cordially nodded in greeting, “Good morning, Dean.”

Dean stepped through the door, an amused smirk overtaking his features, “Uh, Cas, look man, it’s great to see you finally making yourself at home, but where the hell are your clothes?”

“I borrowed them,” you cooed over Dean’s shoulder, surprising the elder Winchester as you brushed past him wearing nothing but Castiel’s crisp white button down dress shirt.

The angel’s blue eyes sparkled noticeably brighter upon your arrival.

“Morning, angel,” draping your arms about Cas’ neck, fingers teasing the dark curls of hair at the nape of his neck, you stood up on tip-toes to place a soft kiss on his pouting lips.

Despite his astonishment at the not entirely unexpected revelation that you and the angel were sleeping together, Dean’s loosely gaping jaw also evidenced the fact he noticed and very much appreciated the quick glimpse of your perfectly curved buttocks when the hem of Cas’ shirt lifted ever so slightly with the shrug of your shoulders.

Cas fondly caressed your cheek, “Good morning, sweetpea.”

You grinned wide as the angel stole another tender kiss from your lips.

Dean mimed disgust at the sickly sweet show of affection.

“Hey guys, what’s going on?” Sam wandered in, flushed and sweaty from a run, soggy towel slung over his shoulder.

“Well Sammy,” Dean snarked, “when two consenting adults are attracted to one another…”

“Funny Dean,” Sam scowled at his brother, realization dawning in his expression at the sight of you and Cas lazily intertwined.

Your arms slid to wind around the angel’s thick muscular torso, nestling your cheek against the soothing warmth of his bare skin.

Resting his chin on your head, Cas flashed a small shy smile at the brothers, “Y/N and I are…”

“Yeah, we got it,” Dean held up a hand, compelling his friend to cease speaking, “don’t need the sticky details.”

“They probably heard everything last night anyway,” you giggled into Cas’ broad chest, fingers impishly jabbing at his sides, prompting the angel’s smile to stretch upward into his nose and eyes, “that husky voice of yours carries through walls, you know.”

“That was, wow, I thought that was Dean’s porn,” Sam stammered, brow elevating in surprise, “that sounded a lot like actual porn.”

“Change of plans Sam, we’re going out for breakfast,” Dean pointed a thumb suggestively at the door, “and based on your expression, I’m going to thank Chuck I almost always fall asleep with headphones blaring.”

“Right, uh, congrats you two,” Sam shook his head, waving and ducking out of the room on the heels of his brother.

Dean appeared in the doorway again a second later, “Oh, and by the way Cas, she looks a heck of a lot better in that shirt than you do, you sly dog.” He winked and swiftly skittered out of view.

Cas looped a finger under your chin, drawing your gaze to meet his, “Dean is correct Y/N, you do look especially beautiful wearing my clothes.”

“It’s not the shirt, silly,” you wriggled in his embrace, playfully jostling him, “you know, you make me very happy. It’s you that looks good on me, angel.”

Cas positively beamed at your praise, sapphire eyes glinting with mutual adoration. He stooped, lips melding with yours, tongue imploring entrance to explore you more deeply, an intoxicated growl vibrating within his throat. Sensing your need for oxygen slowly surmounting your need for him, he reluctantly liberated your mouth to lavish your neck with his eager tongue, allowing you a necessary gasping breath.

You inhaled sharply, a heady mix of strong coffee, charged angelic grace, and your own arousal hitting your nose, “You make coffee?”

“Yes,” he broke from your collarbone, having left yet another reddened mark of endearment on the delicate skin there, “let me.”

You leaned against the counter observing as he poured a steaming, awfully muddy appearing, cup of coffee for you, presenting it with a proud smile. He stared at you with expectant puppy eyes, watching your pink pursed lips blow clouds of steam from the surface, cooling it enough to take a tentative sip. Your nose crinkled, bitter grounds churning around your teeth.

“It’s awful,” Cas frowned at your reaction.

Coughing, you spat the offensive drink back into the mug, “Angel, I think you forgot the filter.”

He gazed back at you apologetically, eyes wide and innocent, as if to ask - what filter?

“Don’t worry about it,” laughter lilted on your tongue as you laid a reassuring palm on his chest, “it could be worse. I mean, the last time you made dinner you caught the kitchen on fire.”

“I’m sorry, sweetpea,” taking the hot mug from your grasp, he set it aside, a hopeful idea swirling within now entreating eyes as he shifted to stand directly in front of you, “let me make it up to you.”

“What do you have in mind?” You simpered, dragging your kiss bruised lower lip enticingly through clenched teeth, fingertips flirtatiously tracing the planes of his abdomen. Strong hands grabbed you at the waist, easily lifting you to perch on the counter, the smooth cold metal momentarily stinging your exposed skin and fogging with the steamy heat of your flesh.

“Breakfast,” he suggested, a mischievous twinkle in his gaze, hands settling to knead the tops of your thighs, fingers nudging the hem of his white shirt to gradually uncover more of your skin.

“And what’s on the menu?” You purred, confident he was hinting at something more exciting than milk and cereal.

“You,” tongue darting to wet dry lips, he shoved the hem of the white shirt to your hips, his shining blues dilated almost to black with lust.

“Oh,” you squeaked, center pooling with wet heat - you hadn’t expected exactly that proposal in answer.

Parting your knees, palms skimming to squeeze your ass, he tugged you nearer to balance on the precipice of the counter, leaning to growl in your ear, “Y/N, you smell delicious. If you want me to, I very much want to taste you.” He leaned back to gauge your reaction, searching your countenance for any sign of apprehension.

You blushed at the hungry manner in which he regarded you. You wanted him in more ways than he knew - this was a good start. Biting your lower lip, you nodded assent.

Calloused fingers moved to lightly massage your inner thighs, spreading your legs further to expose the glistening folds of your sex. Bending, he propped your knees over his shoulders, laving his tongue along each of your inner thighs in turn, stubble pricking and tickling the sensitive skin as he peppered you teasingly with open mouth kisses and hot puffs of air, tantalizing every inch of flesh as he methodically worked his way toward your center. Lips red and arousal swollen, mouth parted, he hovered over your now throbbing sex, “You’re certain this okay?”

“Angel, yes, please,” you keened, stretching to tousle your fingers in his hair.

Never breaking eye contact, the angel sensually kissed your soft mound, flattening his tongue to drag an achingly winding trail through dripping folds. Tongue grazing the luscious wetness of your center, he growled ravenously, the vibration sending tendrils of pleasure winding to your core.

Head lolling to the wall with a whimper, you bucked your hips, urging him to give you more.

Burying his face, he relentlessly probed your center, lavishing attention on every angle his tongue could reach, remembering and revisiting the spots that caused your back to arch, muscles to tense, and your fingers to dig deeply into his scalp. Rough hands roamed your body, simultaneously stilling you and setting you aflame - sparks of grace igniting in their wake.

“Angel,” you moaned, quivering beneath him, nerves buzzing at the brink of release, second hand flying to grasp desperately at his hair.

Emerging from your center with a sated groan, he focused his ministrations on your hooded clit, the pressure of his lips and flicks of his circling tongue increasing in time to your writhing pants of his name. One finger, then another, filled your center, deftly curling to stroke your sweet spot as he sucked your clit into his heated mouth, raking the hyper sensitive bud with his teeth.

“Cas-Castiel!” Screaming, toes curling, walls pulsing around his fingers, you came shattering apart, arching violently off the counter, wave after wave of intense pleasure shuddering your frame.

The angel fervently lapped up everything you had to give him, easing you down from your high.

When you recovered your wits, you found yourself languidly engulfed in his arms, his lips moving lovingly over yours, the sultry taste of you still on his tongue. “My angel,” you moaned, weakly clutching at him, legs trembling, mind still hazy.

He swallowed your words, smiling against your lips, “My sweetpea.”


End file.
